Sunday, 13 November 2011

The Attack of Bridezilla

“It’ll be fine. I won’t spill down it, or tear it on a door handle. I’m not precious about these things.”

That’s me talking that is. I’m talking about my wedding dress: the dress I haven’t even picked out yet. Don’t I sound like an idiot?

But what about the flowers? Said the cautious part of my brain. What if they don’t turn up on the day?

So? They’re just flowers.

What if the caterers mess up?

It’s just food.

What if it rains?

I’ll use a brolly. OK, so it’s the biggest day of my life, but I’m determined not to be ‘precious’ about it.

And just like that, I’d managed to convince myself that I was cooler than Mr Freeze’s underpants. I totally believed my own hype. So what if I trip and fall down the aisle? I’ll laugh it off and get up again. My Dad will probably shout “Drunk already?” Then we’ll all laugh, the photographer will get a lovely off-the-cuff shot of the Ushers chuckling as my new husband helps me up and it’ll be forgotten in minutes. There’s no point getting upset over the little things – I couldn’t possibly control them anyway, so what’s the use in crying over stumbling Bride?

I related this to both my Maid of Honour and to Brawny, and they both loved me too much to do more than raising an eyebrow.

“Seriously,” I said. “It’ll be fine. So what if Mr and Mrs So-and-So had cupcakes at their wedding last year. It’s no big deal.”

Pride comes before a fall, doesn’t it? Only I didn’t think I was being proud until one day when I was flicking idly through Twitter.

And then I saw it: a tweet from a friend who was at a wedding. Someone else had picked the same song as us for their first dance.

I was acutely aware of intense heat and a whistling noise. I looked around to see if the kettle was on, and then I realised it was coming from my own face. Steam was almost literally pouring out of my ears and nostrils. I stared at my phone in disbelief, as if it was playing a particularly nasty trick on me.

Brawny came into the kitchen to find a scene reminiscent of post-apocalyptic Tokyo: with me stomping around in the middle like Godzilla, ranting about sheer rotten luck and how it was ‘our song’ and ‘nobody else’s’.

I managed to chill out for long enough to explain the situation to him, and he looked nonplussed. “So?” he said. “Our wedding’s not for a while yet; people won’t even make the association.”

I mumbled something feeble along the lines of people having ‘seen it all before’, yawning throughout our first dance as Man and Wife, or even exiting the room in disgust.

Not for the first time in our relationship, Brawny looked at me as if I was mad.

“No they won’t.”

He gave me a big cuddle, and as my fuming ebbed and died off in the nook of his armpit I realised that maybe, just maybe, I was being a bit ‘precious’ about something. But it was really important – that song had been our connection while he lived in London some 200 miles away from me, it had been the song he once serenaded me with, and the lyrics described perfectly how we felt about each other.

Maybe I needed to get my priorities right. Just like I can’t control the weakness of my ankles or the weather on the day, I can’t go around putting a Fatwa on anyone in the world who picks the same song as us. This was personal for Brawny and I; and in the end it would be just us dancing together and nobody else. But maybe it’s also OK to want the best for your big day. I guessed I would just have to find a balance that would suit us both.

While my rage was gone, a dull sting of wistfulness nicked at my heart. But almost as if he was sensing my emotions, my fantastic fiancée leant down and whispered in my ear: